


Spare me your dreams

by Ryne



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 2x13, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:29:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryne/pseuds/Ryne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short scene that takes place immediately before the opening of The Last Dragonlord. "I dream about it sometimes," he said quietly. "Burning. I've dreamt of burning... many times. For a long time."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spare me your dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the show. Title from Mumford & Sons.

The great hall smelled of blood and charred flesh and death, and Arthur choked on it as he walked in; he didn’t know how he would ever enjoy a meal there again after seeing it as an infirmary. The room was overflowing and quieter than it had been hours ago, when he had been sleeping and his men had been dying; now he was awake and their bodies had been cleared away, and only the wounded remained, turning restlessly on their cots and trying not to jostle their injuries, or staring at the ceiling and failing to ignore the pain. 

For a moment Arthur could only stare, his eyes catching on the smears of red on the floor and the heap of soiled bandages in the corner and the agonized faces of the patients. He had never felt more exhausted in his life, despite having slept like a dead man for hours; and then his gaze fell on Gaius pulling a sheet over another one of his knights and he cursed himself for the thought. He didn’t know how he was going to endure a third night of this, of fighting an undefeatable foe and trying to lead his men to face it with the knowledge that most of them would not escape unscathed, but he knew that when the time came (and, eyeing the late afternoon sun, he knew it would be soon) he would go out and do it all the same.

And he was _angry_ about it. 

He was angry that all this was necessary, angry that he had to send men to their deaths while he stood by impotently, angry that his men did not curse or complain or run, and yet so proud of them for it that he could weep if he would allow himself to. He was gutted by the loss of Morgana, furious that he had not been there to do anything, furious at Morgause and the fact that he couldn't ride out to look for her in the middle of this attack. And above all, he was angry with that _bloody dragon._

On top of it all -- a little thing, but the final straw: Merlin was missing. Well, not missing, per se, but he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Arthur had been woken up by a stranger, a nameless, faceless, personality-less stranger who was polite and deferential and just what Arthur didn’t need today. All he needed was some sort of outlet for his anger, to _rage_ about everything without having to worry about picking up the pieces afterward -- and Merlin wasn’t there to take it. Merlin, who always knew what Arthur was feeling before he knew it himself, who could bear the brunt of Arthur’s wrath over his helplessness and escape unscathed, even in the desperately sad and furtively guilty state he had fallen into recently. Usually, when Arthur got into moods like this, Merlin would do something wrong on purpose -- drop his helmet or knock a bowl off the table -- and Arthur would vent his spleen on him for his little error and feel much better about it afterwards. But Merlin’s replacement had been a perfect servant, so everything was still caught up inside him.

As he began walking around the aisles, stopping to offer words of comfort and a few moments of his time, all his anger and frustration drained away and left a heavy sadness behind. The patients were not all knights and soldiers of Camelot. Regular citizens whose homes had burned or who had had fire rained down on them from above now lay on cots interspersed amongst the fighters -- men, women, and children, caught in the crossfire, paying the price with brothers and daughters and friends.

The sun was beginning to set in earnest now, and he was just joking with Sir Lamorak, whose face and arms were horribly burnt on the first night because they had not yet known to duck to avoid the flames channeled between the crenels, when he caught sight of a familiar dark head bowed over a cot a few rows away. The spark of irritation ignited once more, but he forced a smile for Lamorak and said, “Get some sleep, my friend, and you’ll be knocking me into the mud again in no time,” before rising and making his way over to Merlin.

“Enjoying your nap?” he bit out, pettily enjoying the way Merlin jumped at the sound of his quiet voice. “You know, I don’t know if you’ve noticed where you are, Merlin, but _people are dying here_ , and --”

His voice died away as soon as Merlin turned around, because Merlin looked wrecked and miserable and as if he hadn’t slept at all. “Of course I’ve noticed,” he said roughly, his eyes wet, and it was then that Arthur noticed the bandages he was holding and the burned little girl laying on the cot in front of him. Once again Arthur’s anger drained away into sadness, but this time it was mixed with dread, because Merlin looked to be teetering on the edge of something dangerous.

“What can I do to help?” he asked, a plea for forgiveness.

Merlin looked at him for a moment, and must have seen everything in his face, because his voice held no anger or blame in it when he answered. “Nothing,” he said tiredly. “Nobody can do anything, none of us can, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

There it was again, that strange guilt that Merlin had been exhibiting since Morgana’s disappearance and the beginning of the dragon’s attack, and again Arthur wondered at its root. Merlin turned back to his patient, but Arthur remained for a moment longer, staring down at his servant’s stooped shoulders before fetching a stool and sitting down next to him. He said nothing more; instead, he watched Merlin work. He often forgot that Merlin was also Gaius’ apprentice; usually he gave off such an air of incompetence that it seemed a wonder that Gaius would trust him with caring for actual human beings. Now, though, as he watched Merlin’s bloodstained fingers spread ointment on the little girl’s burns with such delicacy that it seemed they were hardly touching her at all, Arthur was forced to wonder just how much of that incompetence was faked.

It was not the first time that Arthur had wondered that of his servant. Such thoughts usually emerged after Merlin showed another side to himself, like when he had talked of destinies so familiarly, and when he had spoken of Arthur’s future as king of Camelot with such confidence, or even in the throne room when Arthur had nearly killed his father. In all of those moments, Merlin demonstrated surprising insight and a deep understanding of the way the world worked, and that did not match his usual personality at all; and it forced Arthur to wonder who his servant really was underneath the facade -- and why he needed to hide it at all. But then Merlin would do something stupid, and Arthur would forget all about it. This time there weren’t any distractions, so long as he could ignore the groans of the wounded around him and Merlin's heavy depression, so --

“She’s a sweet little girl,” Merlin said suddenly, and for once Arthur didn’t suspect that he had interrupted on purpose. “She -- I don’t know her name. But. She’s from the lower town, and she’s one of the kids who... who would throw vegetables at me when I was in the stocks again.” He paused to tie off the bandage on her arm, and Arthur couldn’t tear his eyes away from her little face. “She would never throw the hard stuff. Potatoes, and the like. Never. And, one time... I was such a familiar face there, for a while -- thanks for that -- she gave me a flower, one time, while the other kids were off getting more. I asked her why, and she said it was because I smiled all the time, and no one else ever did that.” 

Merlin wasn’t smiling now, as he tied off another bandage, and he paused for a moment, looking down at her before saying sadly, “What a terrible way to die.”

Arthur jerked up to stare at Merlin. “She’s not--”

Merlin shook his head and picked up another bandage. “No, she’s not. She’ll live, I think, as long as her burns don’t get infected. But others have died because of--” He cut himself off and began wrapping the girl’s leg, and Arthur could think of nothing to say.

They sat in silence for a while, and although they were sitting side-by-side, Arthur felt as if they were a million miles apart. Merlin was off in his head and Arthur didn’t know how to get him back, and he wished that Merlin was working on someone, _anyone_ else but this girl, because she was dragging Merlin even further away. He didn’t know how to deal with this and he didn’t want to; it was Merlin who dragged _him_ out of his emotional slumps, who cheered _him_ up and got _him_ back on track, and he needed that right now -- not the other way around. He was just opening his mouth to say something -- he wasn’t sure what it would be -- when Merlin spoke again.

“I dream about it sometimes,” he said quietly, and Arthur got the feeling that he was carefully not looking at him. “Burning,” he clarified. “I’ve dreamt of burning... many times. For a long time.”

Arthur didn’t know what to say. He wanted to assure Merlin that it was just a dream, that everything would be okay, but he never offered platitudes if he could help it, and Merlin deserved more than that. Besides, in this attack, it wasn’t as if Arthur could tell him that it would never happen, because even if Merlin didn’t stupidly insist on staying by Arthur’s side during the fight, nowhere in Camelot was safe from the dragon’s rage.

But it seemed that that wasn’t what Merlin feared. “I’m a sorcerer,” he said, and once again Arthur’s heart stopped, and his breath too this time. Merlin noticed his distress, and he closed his eyes and seemed to steel himself before continuing, “In my dream,” and Arthur could breathe again. Merlin took a deep breath. “I’ve been caught for... I dunno, it’s not always the same. Saving you. Saving Camelot. It doesn’t matter what I did, really, because...”

Because the sentence was always the same.

Merlin had stopped working; instead, he was twisting the blanket between his fingers as he spoke, staring at his hands without seeing them. “It’s in the courtyard, of course.” Of course, Arthur thought, and couldn’t look away. “Everyone’s there, staring. Hating me. Except Gwen.” Merlin smiled a bit, sad and brittle. “She’s... she’s crying. With Gaius. Gaius is...” He huffed a humorless laugh, and his eyes sought out the aged physician, bent over a patient across the room. “My death destroys him,” he whispered, dropping his eyes back to the blanket, and Arthur wanted him to stop because it sounded too much like the truth, but he ploughed right on. “Morgana is there, too. Not always in the same place. Sometimes she’s with Gwen and Gaius, sometimes she’s locked in her room for protesting -- not that I’m anyone special or anything, but you know how she feels...”

He did -- he had been present for more of Morgana’s arguments about magic than Merlin had -- and he wanted to tell Merlin that he wasn’t fooling anyone when he said that he was nothing special to Morgana, because hadn’t he been the one to tell Merlin that it had to stop?

“She looks so _betrayed_ ,” Merlin said, and there was real pain in his voice this time. “She looks so betrayed because I never told her, and sometimes it looks like she’ll never forgive me.

“Uther’s there, of course, hating me most of all. He looks so pleased with himself for catching the sorcerer in his household, the infiltrator, the _secret assassin_ , and I know that my death starts a new purge.” Bit full of himself, Arthur thought, until Merlin continued bitterly. “I was so close to you, you see. And he thinks that if one sorcerer can rise to such a position undetected, then they must be everywhere, and then for years Camelot chokes on the ashes of even more innocents.”

Arthur had no idea that Merlin could make treason sound so poetic, but it was treason all the same. “Merlin,” he hissed out, the first time he’s spoken since this began. “Merlin, that is my father you’re talking about--”

“Yes. It is,” Merlin snapped out, and Arthur was stunned into silence at the anger blazing there. “He is your _father_ , and that is the _only reason_ \--”

“The only reason _what_ ,” Arthur repeated after Merlin stopped himself, feeling his anger flooding back.

“Nothing,” Merlin muttered, looking tired and defeated once more, and Arthur deflated as well.

Silence fell once more, and this time it was awkward and unnatural. Merlin began spreading more ointment on the burns on the girl’s face. Arthur tried to think of something to say, but all he could think of was Merlin’s nightmare, and how resigned Merlin looked while talking about it.

“Where was I?” Arthur wondered aloud, and Merlin stiffened. 

“When?”

“In your dream,” Arthur said. Merlin’s eyes closed once more, and something in his face made idle speculation turn to dread. “Merlin,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on his face. “Where was I in your dream?”

Merlin swallowed. “You’re like Morgana,” he started. “You’re not always in the same place. Sometimes you’re up on the balcony. Sometimes you’re not; sometimes I don’t know where you are. And sometimes...” He trails off and does not pick it up again, and Arthur hates himself for whatever it is that he has done in the dream that puts that expression on Merlin’s face.

“And then I burn,” Merlin said stoically, but Arthur could hear his terror. “I won’t describe it to you.”

Merlin’s subconscious must be brutal, to make him sleep and feel through the full burning. Arthur had seen many executions before, has seen in the past few days the burns of the dragon’s victims, and he can imagine the pain of it. He also knew this: he was not good with emotion, but he needed to say something now, even platitudes, or Merlin would break all over him. “It’ll never happen,” he offered, and Merlin stilled once again.

“Promise?” he said quietly.

“Yes.”

Merlin turns to look at him, his eyes desperate and searching. “ _Do you promise_.”

Arthur felt as if Merlin was asking something of him that he did not understand, something _huge_ , and he could feel its weight as he looked Merlin in the eye and said, “I promise, Merlin, that that will never happen to you.”

And as Arthur looked away to give Merlin a moment to get himself under control, he found himself to be much calmer. The sun had set, and it was time once more. “Are you ready?” he asked, getting to his feet and adjusting his sword belt.

“Yeah,” said Merlin, and there was a new strength in his voice. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

Arthur eyed him carefully, and while he still seemed exhausted and guilty and terribly sad, he no longer looked quite so hopeless.

And so once again, they went out into the night to face the dragon.


End file.
